The McVentures of Me, Morgan McFactoid

by Mark S. Waxman

  He instinctively moved his hand to his face, as if to swat a fly. Without ever waking, he scratched the itchy areas, rubbing the moist formula from his fingertips into the skin on his face.

  If the lotion were to work on a human, I wondered how long it would take before hair would sprout. I didn’t have to wonder long. There, before my eyes, I witnessed an astonishing sight: tiny nubs—real whiskers!—began to grow on Buckholtz’s big face . . . and on the end of his stubby fingers! It was like watching time-lapse photography as the red nubs grew into short bristles. Red bristles. Real live hair! This was epic!

  Within seconds, Buckholtz had a five o’clock shadow on his face. Then the school bell rang.

  “Time!” Mrs. Constantine called out. “Pencils down. Papers in.”

  Buckholtz jolted awake. He turned to me. “What’re you looking at, Hairy?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Uh, what, Hairy? And where’s my trapezoid answer?”

  I glanced at the board and immediately came up with the answer. “Eighty feet squared,” I whispered to Buckholtz.

  “That better be right,” he threatened, scribbling down the answer.

  Mrs. Constantine rose from her chair and said loudly, “Hand in your paper on the way out. Make sure your name is on it.”

  We stood in the back of the line, heading up the aisle toward Mrs. Constantine’s desk. Then, just for the fun of it, Buckholtz grabbed my vial, ripped the strap off my neck, and spiked it onto the floor.

  “Oops. Your girly necklace fell off,” Buckholtz barked. “What’re you going to do about it?”

  I picked it up, retied the leather strap, and put it back around my neck. I was shaking with fear and fury. I felt a fact-attack coming on. My brain went into auto-pilot: Reno, Nevada is west of Los Angeles, California . . . there are more nerve cells in the human brain than there are stars in the Milky Way . . . when the following sentence is read in reverse, it gives you the same sentence: Was it a car or a cat I saw?

  “You’re a chicken, Hairy,” Buckholtz said. “After school I’m pluckin’ your feathers. And this time you ain’t flappin’ away.”

  He flung his paper on Mrs. Constantine’s desk and left the room, laughing.

  I didn’t want to miss seeing the moment Buckholtz found out about his fresh furry face, so I rushed down the hall to catch up to him, being careful to stay a few steps behind while heading across campus.

  I could see kids coming toward us, becoming aware of Buckholtz’s new facial hair. Their eyes widened. Their mouths dropped open. Some girls giggled into their hands. Buckholtz was starting to feel self-conscious, probably wondering if he had a piece of breakfast caught between his teeth (which he did) or if his zipper was down (which it was).

  It wasn’t long before he ducked into the boy’s restroom. (The average person goes to the bathroom six times a day.) I followed him partway in, hiding in the doorway as he trotted to the mirror. He picked a piece of bacon from between his two front teeth. He pulled up his zipper. He was about to leave when he noticed something else. He leaned into the mirror for a closer look and was stunned by what he saw: new red hair on his face . . . to go with the old black hair on his head. A two-toned man. His hands rose slowly to his cheeks; his fingers stroked his beard for the first time. He was so baffled by the sudden change that he didn’t notice the little hairs, which had also grown on his fingertips.

  Nor did he notice me slipping out the door.

  SNOLLYGOSTER SYNDROME

  The cafeteria was noisy and crowded. Robin was eating at a table surrounded, as always, by her girlfriends. They were all talking loudly, each competing for Robin’s attention. They dressed like Robin. They talked like Robin. It was clear they wanted to be like Robin—and to be liked by Robin.

  I sat down at an empty table nearby. She knew I was there but didn’t bother talking to me or even acknowledging my presence.

  I waited until each of Robin’s posse, one by one, bused their dirty dishes to the kitchen area, leaving Robin alone—a rare sight. I quickly picked up my lunch tray, moved to Robin’s table, and sat across from her. We were alone.

  “It wasn’t a fluke,” I said.

  Robin wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

  “I ran some more tests like you said,” I yelped, trying to contain my excitement.

  She looked away.

  “Hair grew on Taxi again.”

  She pushed her chicken salad around her plate.

  “And on wood.”

  She smoothed her blouse.

  “And on brick.”

  She finished her drink.

  “And on steel.”

  She picked up her tray, stood, and took a step to leave.

  “And on Buckholtz,” I said, revealing the vial around my neck. “I brought some drops to school.”

  Robin scowled, her eyes finally meeting mine.

  “Fact: it takes more muscles to frown than to smile,” I said. “So, enjoy the news. And smile.” She remained silent, but maintained eye contact.

  “Humans, Robin. It works on humans!” She slowly sat back down, expressionless. “If you consider Buckholtz a human,” I added. She wasn’t amused. “I haven’t figured out the right dosage or how long it lasts, but Hair Today is here to stay! Hey, Hair Today is Hair to Stay. Not a bad advertising slogan, is it?”

  As Robin was digesting all this along with her chicken salad, Buckholtz plunked down next to me with a thump. I thought the chair was going to collapse. Jerry and Donald, his idiot friends, stood behind him. They were like bodyguards, except without the muscles. Buckholtz still had his facial hair, but I could see that it was beginning to disappear. Note to self: it appears that the Hair Today lotion needs to be applied in greater quantity or be reapplied frequently in order for it to last longer on humans. Further testing is required.

  Buckholtz put his nose an inch from mine. We were eye to eye. I swallowed and remembered this fact: a person’s eyes are always the same size from birth, but noses and ears never stop growing.

  “Look at me, Hairy,” he said. “See anything different on my face?”

  “It’s whiskery,” I said, hoping his facial hair would last at least through our conversation. “You’re no longer the only one man enough to grow a beard around here,” Buckholtz bragged.

  “So I guess that means—”

  “No, Hairy. I always keep my promises, remember? I’m still going to shave you after gym. And I’m still gonna throw in a free buzz cut while I’m at it.” He leaned across the lunch table and jutted his prickly chin in Robin’s face, “Go ahead, touch it.”

  Robin didn’t even flinch. “A beard doesn’t make you a man any more than picking on someone makes you a man,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Did she really say that? To Brad Buckholtz’s blotchy face? Robin was one brave lady.

  Buckholtz blinked once and rose to his feet, puffing up his chest. “I’ll see you girls later.”

  My blood pressure soared and I felt my hands begin to sweat. Buckholtz turned to go, when Robin caught his attention. “I read that mononucleosis can have some nasty after effects,” she said.

  Buckholtz halted, turned and looked at me. “What’s she blabbering about?”

  Robin continued, “Just when you think you’ve recovered, strange things start happening to your body.”

  “Just be pretty. Don’t try to be brainy, too,” he said to her.

  “It happened to my cousin,” Robin said, her lip curled. I could tell she was steaming. But she kept her cool.

  “What happened?” Buckholtz demanded.

  “You don’t want to know,” she said.

  “Tell me!” Buckholtz hollered, sitting back down.

  “It’s rare. Don’t worry about it,” she said.

  Buckholtz was becoming more and more agitated. Robin was running out of ideas. She desperately looked to me. I pitched in.

  “Yeah, really rare,” I said. “They say it only occurs in nine out of eight cases.�
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  “What occurs in nine out of eight cases?” Buckholtz yelled, his face turning cherry red with anger.

  “It’s called . . .” Robin calmly began, and then gestured to me to take over.

  “It’s called the Snollygoster Syndrome,” I said, making something up on the spot. (“Snollygoster” is a real word. It’s a person who can’t be trusted. At that moment, that person was me.)

  “The what?” Buckholtz asked.

  “Snolly,” Robin said. “From the Latin, meaning . . .” She turned to me.

  “It means ‘extremely,’” I said.

  “And ‘goster’ from the Greek, meaning . . .” Robin said, turning to me again.

  “Fatal,” I said quickly.

  “Extremely fatal,” Robin proclaimed, trying not to smile. “It’s a well-known syndrome.”

  “You guys are snolly nuts,” Buckholtz said.

  “Look it up,” I said. “PMP. Post Mono Phenomenon.”

  Robin wasn’t done either. She was determined to scare Buckholtz. “Hair starts to grow—” Robin began.

  “Yeah? I like that,” Buckholtz said, proudly fondling his new stubble with his newly hairy fingers.

  “Hair. That you can’t stop growing,” I added without hesitation.

  “I wouldn’t mind a beard, I guess,” he said.

  “You’ll have a beard you’ll never forget. It starts on the face, and then before you know it—” Robin said.

  “Think of an ape,” I said.

  “Boom! Hair starts spreading all over,” Robin said.

  “Everywhere,” I said.

  “Even on the bottom of your feet,” Robin said.

  “Until your toes rot off. Fatal Feet Syndrome,” I said.

  Buckholtz stood up, processing the information, absent-mindedly fiddling with the hair nubs on his fingertips.

  “Oh, and it’s also highly contagious,” I said. “But only the flesh-eating part, so don’t worry.”

  Donald the Dope and Jerry the Jerk immediately jumped away from Buckholtz. They stared at him, waiting for his response. Buckholtz shook his huge head back and forth. “Yeah, sure. I’m going to turn into King Kong.” He leaned back and howled with laughter. Only then did Don and Jerry howl with laughter. Suddenly, Buckholtz stopped howling and slammed his big hands onto my little shoulders, driving me deep into my chair. “See you after school, Hairy.” He took out of his pocket electric clippers. And switched them on. “It’s gonna be real goster. You know—fatal.” He and his goons turned and swaggered off.

  The chilling buzzing sound of the clippers faded away.

  Robin and I sat there, watching them walk out of the lunchroom. She looked at me and asked, “Are you okay?”

  I couldn’t speak. I hoped that she couldn’t see that my hands were shaking.

  She tried to calm me down. “Have you heard any good facts lately?”

  “Forty is the only number that has its letters in alphabetical order,” I managed to say.

  “Oh. Well, the number one is the only number with its letters in reverse alphabetical order,” Robin returned.

  “Four is the only number whose number of letters in the name equals the number,” I said.

  We sat there a moment. “Do you feel better now?” Robin asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  I’d call her awesome, but everybody calls everything awesome. Let’s just say she was . . . Rob-in-describable.

  “About the beast . . .” she started.

  “Buckholtz?”

  “You know what you have to do, right?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  Robin and I understood each another, without having to talk. That’s pretty cool.

  “It’s your only chance,” she said.

  I nodded. I remembered that message to myself: whenever you’re afraid of taking a chance, don’t be.

  We sat there silently until the bell rang. Those left in the cafeteria got up and hustled to class.

  As I got ready to go, Robin touched my arm and said, “Bonne chance, Morgan.” She strolled off, her ponytail bobbing side to side.

  Fact: “Bonne chance” means “good luck” in French.

  Fact: French toast and french fries aren’t French inventions.

  Fact: I was falling deeper in amour with Robin.

  GOT SOME SATISFACTION

  It was after gym class, last period. Most of the guys had finished dressing and were milling around outside waiting for the last bell of the day. I was dressed, too. But I was hiding inside the locker room, inside the dirty towel sack. It was damp, and it smelled like, well, dirty towels. Other than me, Buckholtz was the last one there.

  “Buckholtz!” Coach Gonzalez yelled from the doorway. “Hurry up!”

  Buckholtz couldn’t hear the coach. He was still taking a shower, singing “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” off-key and at the top of his lungs. I crawled out of the stinky sack and sneaked down the slippery cement floor toward the open shower area, stopping just outside Buckholtz’s sight.

  When he began washing his hair and had his eyes closed, I stepped forward. He couldn’t hear me over the sound of the shower. With my house key, I very carefully pried the top off the soap dispenser and emptied my vial of Hair Today into it.

  With soapsuds all over his face, with his eyes squeezed shut, with his shrill singing reverberating off the tile, Buckholtz reached out, patting the air in search of more soap and just missed touching me. His fingers found the dispenser on the wall. He depressed the button several times until his palm was filled with a mixture of the school’s liquid soap gel and gobs of my secret formula. I sneaked around the corner and crouched behind a waist-high wall.

  He scrubbed his face and “cleaned” his entire body, slathering his arms, torso, legs, and feet. (I was pretty nervous. That must be why I remembered that an eight-minute shower uses seventeen gallons of water. And that it takes seven and a half years for the average American residence to use the same amount of water that flows over the Niagara Falls in one second.)

  And then it happened. Hair Today took root. Instantly, bright red hair started popping out on his chest, on his back, on his sides. Everywhere, if you know what I mean. I had to keep myself from laughing.

  Buckholtz stopped singing and stopped moving. His hands froze in midair, as he realized something felt different, something seemed wrong, something strange was happening to him. He stroked his arms and could feel long, shaggy hair. He rubbed his legs and could feel long, bushy hair. Off his butt a tiny tail was forming! He immediately rinsed the soap from his face so that he could open his eyes, which had six-inch lashes! And when he looked down at himself, he couldn’t believe what he saw—every square inch of his skin was covered with thick, wild red hair!

  I quietly exited the locker room, wandering out of the gym, listening to the screams coming from the shower room. A traumatized Buckholtz wouldn’t be bothering me that day after school. He’d messed with the wrong Hairy-boy!

  I walked cheerfully and safely home, without anyone chasing me, without losing one whisker off my face, without losing one hair off my head.

  Finally, I got some satisfaction.

  After dinner that night, I ran across the street and knocked on Robin’s front door. She opened it. And looked me over. “No black eyes. That’s a good sign,” she said.

  “Buckholtz never laid a hairy finger on me.”

  “That Post Mono Phenomenon can be miserable, they say.”

  “He got a bad case. With some gnarly side effects.” I smiled. “And front effects, back effects and—”

  “I get the picture.”

  “The formula worked again. Perfectly. Buckholtz turned into an enormous Elmo right in front of my eyes!” I said. “I felt so . . . powerful.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “For us. We stand to make a fortune!”

  “Off other people’s misfortune!”

  “What?”

  “Men can’t help it if they’re bald,” she said.


  “Now they can. We’re going to sell them hair.”

  “It’s just hair!”

  “Which is just what they want!”

  She stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind her. She looked around, and then, after a moment, she said, “Do you want to know what really bothers me—what keeps me up at night?”

  “I sure do.”

  “I’ve never told anybody this.” Robin looked away.

  I couldn’t believe she was about to confide in me.

  She simply said, “I wonder who my real friends are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not sure if they like me for what I look like or what I act like.”

  “Really?”

  “When we first met, you said you liked my ponytail.”

  “Yeah. I still do.”

  “You don’t get it. You just don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Get who I am.”

  “Of course I get who you are. Uh, I think,” I said not very smoothly. “What does this have to do with our formula?”

  “Your formula,” she volleyed back.

  “But we’re partners,” I said.

  “No, we’re not. We’re not even friends.”

  She stormed back inside her house, slammed the door, and left me to figure out what the heck she was talking about. Not even friends?

  Girls. I swear, what’s with them?

  WARNING: DON’T DIS MY DAD

  The next morning, Poppy was in the living room reading the Carlsbad Courier. He held it up so I could see the front page. There was a large photograph of Buckholtz, his body covered in red shaggy hair. The caption read, “Local Boy Has Bad Hair Day.”

  “It’s dangerous out there,” Poppy said. “They spotted Bigfoot near your school.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I said, with a slight grin.

  “I wonder how that happened.” Poppy folded the paper, took off his reading glasses, and scratched his head. “How’s that no-more-shaving invention coming along?” he asked.